The Friday passed by without much difficulty.  The Senator was driven about, and everything was inquired into.  One or two farm houses were visited, and the farmers’ wives were much disturbed by the questions asked them.  “I don’t think they’d get a living in the States,” was the Senator’s remark after leaving one of the homesteads in which neither the farmer nor his wife had shown much power of conversation.  “Then they’re right to stay where they are,” replied Mr. Morton, who in spite of his diplomacy could not save himself from being nettled.  “They seem to get a very good living here, and they pay their rent punctually.”

On the Saturday morning the hounds met at the “Old Kennels,” as the meet was always called, and here was an excellent opportunity of showing to Mr. Gotobed one of the great institutions of the country.  It was close to the house and therefore could be reached without any trouble, and as it was held on Morton’s own ground, he could do more towards making his visitor understand the thing than might have been possible elsewhere.  When the hounds moved the carriage would be ready to take them about the roads, and show them as much as could be seen on wheels.

Punctually at eleven John Morton and his American guest were on the bridge, and Tony Tuppett was already occupying his wonted place, seated on a strong grey mare that had done a great deal of work, but would live,—­as Tony used to say,—­to do a great deal more.  Round him the hounds were clustered,—­twenty-three couple in all,—­ some seated on their haunches, some standing obediently still, while a few moved about restlessly, subject to the voices and on one or two occasions to a gentle administration of thong from the attendant whips.  Four or five horsemen were clustering round, most of them farmers, and were talking to Tony.  Our friend Mr. Twentyman was the only man in a red coat who had yet arrived, and with him, on her brown pony, was Kate Masters, who was listening with all her ears to every word that Tony said.

“That, I guess, is the Captain you spoke of,” said the Senator pointing to Tony Tuppett.

“Oh no;—­that’s the huntsman.  Those three men in caps are the servants who do the work.”

“The dogs can’t be brought out without servants to mind them!  They’re what you call gamekeepers.”  Morton was explaining that the men were not gamekeepers when Captain Glomax himself arrived, driving a tandem.  There was no road up to the spot, but on hunt mornings,—­or at any rate when the meet was at the old kennels,—­ the park-gates were open so that vehicles could come up on the green sward.

“That’s Captain Glomax, I suppose,” said Morton.  “I don’t know him, but from the way he’s talking to the huntsman you may be sure of it”

“He is the great man, is he?  All these dogs belong to him?”

“Either to him or the hunt”

“And he pays for those servants?”

“Certainly.”